


Right or Right

by Dusk Peterson (duskpeterson)



Series: Darkling Plain [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Female Protagonist, Het, Lords, Mentors, Original Fiction, Original Het, Romance, Soldiers, Speculative fiction, War, disabled, don't need to read other stories in the series, intellectually disabled, physically disabled
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-10 10:22:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5582050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskpeterson/pseuds/Dusk%20Peterson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>"He looked at Linnet, smiling as sweetly as though she had offered to buy the man's shop. 'Tell me,' said the shopkeeper, 'what caused you to leave your barony?'"</b>
</p><p>Linnet is trouble. Everyone agrees about that. Driven from her native barony, she arrives at Goldhollow in hopes of beginning a new life, only to discover that she cannot escape her past.</p><p>As Linnet is drawn into memories of a dark young man she once knew, she must deal in the present with a boy who is headed toward danger, as well as a child-like baron who may force her to betray her past.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>
    <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskpeterson/profile#w">Boilerplate warning for all my stories.</a>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>All the stories in this series are stand-alones; you don't need to read the others to understand this one.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The shopkeeper, as she had anticipated, was a pleasant enough man, as long as that pleasantness was not expected to extend as far as lowering the prices of his overpriced goods. He was delighted, he told her, to meet a new neighbor, and one who had travelled so far. He gave only the briefest of glances at her gown, whose ragged state revealed how far her journey had taken her. 

Linnet smiled easily back at him. "I'm afraid I arrive here as much of a beggar as I was when I left my own barony. I've heard, though, that it isn't hard to find work here." 

"No, indeed," said the shopkeeper, who was clearly trying to assess how low her previous work had taken her. "We have need of maid-servants in the Barony of Goldhollow, and I believe that our baron's guardians are always in need of scribes, if your education extends that far. And if you are in need of . . . more vigorous work, I'm told that there is a house near the end of this road where—" 

"I've done scribe-work in the past," Linnet interrupted, before the shopkeeper should begin telling her on what days he visited that house. "I've also done some tutoring. Are there any children at the baron's keep who are in need of a tutor?" 

"Aside from the baron himself?" the shopkeeper said in a light manner, then turned to glare at the boy who had edged into the shop and was staring with greedy eyes at the cherries in the window. The boy took one look at the shopkeeper and hastily backed out of the door, though his gaze lingered upon the sweet-smelling fruit as he did so. 

It was a lazy May afternoon, and the streets outside were crowded with richly dressed shoppers, and also with boys dressed in clothes even more ragged than Linnet's, as though they were in competition with her. As Linnet turned her head to watch, one boy snatched a dead pullet from a woman's basket and dashed off with a cry of triumph. He was quickly surrounded by a group of boys, darting into one line like a rivulet attached to a stream; one of them cried out to the boy standing by the shop. The boy bit his lip, clearly longing to join the feast procession, but after a moment he shook his head and returned his attention to the shop window. 

Linnet looked back at the shopkeeper. He was muttering something under his breath about thieving children, but cut off his invective as Linnet said, "The baron is too old for tutoring, surely." 

"Old enough in body, at least." For the first time, a sadness entered into the shopkeeper's expression. "You'll have heard about our poor baron? They say that when he was a boy he was as normal as those boys out there, but after he had that bad fall of his— Still, he's better off than most men of his kind would be. His guardians look after his affairs, and they even allow him freedom to go where he wishes, as he wouldn't harm so much as a spring chick. If you ever meet him, you must act as though he's a normal man. He prefers it that way." 

Linnet nodded, keeping her eyes fixed on the shopkeeper's face, but her mind was on the smell of the cherries in the window; she could feel soft water forming in her mouth. Pushing this thought aside, she said, "Even with jobs plentiful, I'm sure it must be hard for people in this barony to find good, honest workers. In this shop, for example, you have all this food lying about . . ." 

To her satisfaction, the shopkeeper immediately launched into a speech about the lack of honest men and women in the world. Thieving street-boys, he said, were the least of his problems; even decent men and women weren't above stealing a fruit or two when his back was turned. And when it came to finding honest workers . . . Why, his last assistant had pocketed and spent half his earnings before the shopkeeper had discovered the boy's deception. 

"Just so," said Linnet soothingly. "And I don't suppose he was even much use to you in stopping the thefts. A boy like that, brought up in a decent home, couldn't be expected to know the wily ways of the street-boys who snatch food from your store. What you need is a boy who is honest to the core, yet who knows the street-boys' methods and can keep them from thieving your merchandise." 

The shopkeeper's gaze drifted over to the boy standing by the window. The boy's tongue travelled over his lips, licking up some saliva which threatened to drool out of his mouth; then he noticed the shopkeeper watching and jumped back a space from the window, as though confronted by a cudgel. 

"You must be mad," said the shopkeeper. "A boy like that would steal all my earnings on the first day." 

"Not at all," replied Linnet, who had spent the pause in conversation calculating whether she had enough money left to buy a full day's meal. "He only runs with the street-boys because his family is so poor that they can't afford to feed him properly. If you were to pay him regular wages, you'd find him to be just as honest as a decent boy—more honest, in fact, since he knows that this is his only chance at a decent job." 

The shopkeeper's looked again the boy, now chewing on his thumbnail, and then at Linnet, smiling as sweetly as though she had offered to buy the man's shop. "Tell me," said the shopkeeper, "what caused you to leave your barony?" 

Linnet's smile never wavered. "The baron threw me out," she said blithely, "for making a nuisance of myself among the merchants, in the same manner as I'm making a nuisance of myself here. Your baron's soldiers are on the streets; I'm sure they'd be happy to take me away for judgment." 

For the first time, the shopkeeper's hard face cracked into a smile. It was plainly an effort he rarely made, and for a moment Linnet felt her breath grow still. It was the eyes, she told herself with anger: the blue eyes and the Goldhollow accent. More than once since her arrival she had heard this accent, and more than once she had seen the blue eyes which were so rare in her own barony. Each time she had been forced to remind herself that this was his barony and these were his people; she should have expected to meet men who looked and sounded like him. 

"And who would judge you, our soft-hearted baron?" the shopkeeper asked. "Even his guardians are of a tender sort. No, I won't trouble the soldiers by having them haul off a troublesome wench—but neither will you be able to convince me that a dirty-faced boy like that could be turned into an honest worker." 

"These boys may seem dark on the surface," Linnet replied, dismissing the past from her mind, "but hidden inside each one is a golden boy, waiting to be released. Some golden boys are so deeply planted that it would take more skill than I have to coax them to the surface. Other boys, though—like the one outside your shop—need only a chance to show that they are more faithful and self-sacrificing than the decent boys who make off with half your earnings." 

"Mm." The shopkeeper glanced at the boy again, who was now biting his filthy thumb. "And if you're wrong and he absconds with my money—what then? Who will pay for the thievery of this golden boy of yours?" 

"I will," said Linnet, sighing inwardly. She had known that it would come to this. "I'll place money as a token of my faith in him." 

"I'll need the money beforehand," said the shopkeeper promptly. "Twenty gold pieces, that's how much my last assistant stole. You'd need to give me that before I'd be willing to take the boy on." 

Linnet, who had just decided that one meal was all that she could afford to buy at this shop, felt a heaviness grow inside her, but she responded, "Done. Just give me a few days to gather in the money. In the meantime, sir, I cannot resist the sight of those cherries—" 

She emerged from the shop a few minutes later, her basket filled with just enough cherries and bread to keep her strong until the next day. The boy, who had begun watching the food-laden passersby with a hungry and practiced eye, quickly slid up to her side. "Well?" he said, in a voice that contained little hope. 

"Not yet," said Linnet, without breaking her stride. "He wants me to place bond on you first; I'll have to earn the money somehow. In the meantime, you're not to go about thieving—that's your half of the bargain." 

"Can't promise that," the boy said at once. "I have to eat, Mistress Linnet." 

"Here." Linnet stopped in the midst of the street; a goods-deliverer driving a mule-cart cursed at her before curving his path around her. Linnet quickly divided her food in half before holding the basket out to the boy. "You come every day and see me," she said, "and I'll feed you till I find you a job." 

The boy snatched the food from her basket with all the skill that he had learned and darted off, weaving his way among passersby in his usual manner of escape. Linnet watched the smudged-faced boy go, a smile lingering upon her lips. Then she looked down at her basket and sighed. Half a meal—that was all that would keep her going until she found a job. And once she had found a job, how could she earn twenty gold pieces at the same time that she was feeding herself and the boy? Yet even as she thought this, she set her jaw in a stubborn manner that was familiar to all who had ever known her. She turned in her path in order to depart. It was in this way that she first caught sight of the man. 

He was staring at her with the blank expression of a schoolboy who is caught dreaming, and his jaw hung open slackly. As she watched, saliva drooled from his mouth and crawled its way across his chubby chin. His dull blue eyes were deep-set in the folds of his bloated face. Atop his head, like the thin covering of moss on a massive rock, wisps of white hair surrounded the bare crown of his head. His clothes were finely made, but they clung to his obese body in an unappetizing fashion, and the only feature of him that could truly be said to be attractive was the jewel hanging at his breast. 

For a moment more, he stared at Linnet with bleary eyes. Then he seemed to jerk awake, and he hastily rubbed his wet mouth against his sleeve. By now, Linnet felt more than a little embarrassed to have been caught watching this plump man. She quickly covered her chagrin by saying in a cheerful voice, "Good evening to you, sir! It's a fine day, don't you agree?" 

The man did not reply immediately. Too late, Linnet realized that this richly dressed gentleman might not appreciate being addressed by a woman in a tattered gown. But when he spoke, it was in a voice soft and hesitant. "Good—good evening to you, mistress." 

Linnet felt the blood thump at the base of her throat, and she furiously willed her heart to stay still. Those sweet-cursed eyes and accent, she thought to herself. At least this time it took no effort to wrench herself back from the past. Never before had she seen such a grotesque parody of her memory of him. 

"I am Linnet," she said quickly to cover her confusion, and walked forward to offer forth her hand. 

The man took it, but seemed not to know what to do. He held her hand awkwardly for a moment before letting go and saying, "I'm—I'm Stewart." 

"Oh!" This was an unexpected twist in the road, but right or right, as she had once been told, and somehow she would make this path come to a right end, despite her bad start. She smiled at the man with as much sweetness as she had shown toward the shopkeeper. "I am delighted to meet you, baron. I'm newly arrived in your land but am already much impressed by your barony." 

Her smile was having the opposite effect that she had intended. The baron Stewart took a few hasty steps backwards, and for a moment Linnet wondered whether he could read her mind and knew that she had been most impressed by the poverty of some of his people. But after a minute spent wiping more drool off his chin, he replied, "I'm glad—I'm glad you like it here." 

Linnet was beginning to think that she had held more sensible conversations with the street-boys, and she was about to say so in her usual forthright manner, when she remembered in time the shopkeeper's advice: she must act as though this man was normal and not draw attention to his affliction. She forced a smile again and said, "I like that jewel you're wearing—it's quite lovely." 

Stewart looked vaguely down at the chained jewel, as though not quite sure what Linnet was referring to. As he did so, Linnet caught sight of a scar atop his head—the legacy, she guessed, of his childhood fall. Perhaps he had been climbing a tree in boyish fashion? She had a sudden vision of the baron as a ten-year-old, trying to cram his fat belly against the trunk of a tree, and she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. 

"Yes, I—I inherited it from my father," Stewart said finally. "I've always thought it was pretty. My guardians don't like me wearing it here on the streets, because they're afraid one of the street-boys will try to snatch it, but I've always thought the boys here are—are really nicer than they look. Don't you think so?" He looked up at her with an expression close to pleading, like a schoolboy hoping for good marks. 

"Certainly," said Linnet, pleased to have found a sensible topic for conversation. "Most of them are golden at their core, despite their appearance. In fact, I'm sure that with a little help, they could lead much better lives." Despite her best efforts, the final sentence came out as an accusation. 

Stewart's face, which was already the color of dough, turned even paler, as though he had already heard Linnet's full speech on rich folks' laxness in fulfilling their duties to their poor neighbors. He stood chewing his lip as shoppers continued to jostle past them on the wooden pavement, brushing past their baron with as much carelessness as though he were a street-boy. Linnet cradled her arms around her basket, hoping that the remainder of her meal would remain un-thieved by the end of this conversation. 

"Yes, I—I thought so too, when I was young," Stewart said finally, in the same hesitant manner as before. "I thought it would be nice to help the street-boys, but—but when I told my guardians, I don't think they understood. I'm not very good at explaining things," he added in a rush. 

For the first time, Linnet realized that she was talking to the wrong person. This awkward, balding man held no power in this barony, despite his title; all the power was held by his guardians. Clearly it was to them that she must go for help, and she was wasting her time talking to the soft-headed man before her. Yet something—perhaps it was his boyish expression—held her in her place and caused her to say reassuringly, "You'll find a way to help them in the end, I'm sure. Everything will work out the right way." 

"Yes, right or right." 

The spring day was warm; the sun stroked her with its rays as though she were being held in its arms, yet in that moment Linnet felt as though the whole world had been gulped into darkness. "What?" she whispered. 

Stewart looked alarmed. Perhaps her face revealed more than she intended it to. "I—I only meant that everything would turn out right, as you said. Right or right. That's—" He stopped, swallowed, and said, "That's something a kinsman of mine used to say. He meant that if you find one path blocked, the next path is sure to take you in the right direction." 

"A kinsman?" As she spoke, Linnet felt a light touch on her arm, a sure sign that her evening meal was about to be snatched, but she could not have moved her eyes from Stewart's face if her life had depended upon it. 

Stewart was beginning to look miserable, as though he sensed the bleak confusion into which he had plunged her. "Yes, he—he was a distant kinsman. I didn't know him well. Sometimes I'd—I'd meet him on the streets, though, and he'd say—" 

He stopped. For a moment, Linnet was aware of nothing but Stewart's dull blue eyes and the cry of the street-boy behind her as he snatched her supper. Then Stewart said, in a softer voice than before, "I'm—I'm sorry, but I'm not very good at remembering things. Did you say that your name was Linnet?" 

Linnet had a ball in her aching throat now that blocked all speech; she nodded silently. Stewart, with an apologetic look, said, "Oh, then—then you knew Golden. I remember he mentioned you once, when we were both in the Barony of Dale End. Our army had gone there to fight, you see—" 

"I know." Linnet's voice came out harsher than she had intended. 

"Oh. Yes. That's where you came from, I suppose? I'm sorry, I should have realized— I'm not very good at thinking fast and—" 

"What did Golden say about me?" Linnet was aware as she spoke that several passersby were casting glances her way, no doubt curious as to why she was questioning their baron in such a peremptory manner. 

Stewart seemed embarrassed by the attention too, and he waited until several shoppers had walked past before he said, "Not—not very much. He said that he was going to marry you." 

The ache in Linnet's throat had spread to the rest of her body; she felt like a soldier lying wounded on the field. As though the speaking of the words would heal her, she said, "Yes, he was going to. But then he died." 

"Oh." Stewart seemed uncertain how to follow up on this remark; after several tries, he said, "I'm sorry, I—I forgot. I don't have a very good memory, you see." 

Linnet decided that she had been wrong: this path had taken her so far into the darkness that it would never twist right again. "Well," she said, gathering up her skirt in preparation to cross the dirt-filled street, "I am glad to have met you, baron. I must be getting back to my chamber to prepare my evening—" She glanced down at the empty basket and quickly said, "To prepare for bed. If you will excuse me—" 

His mouth was continuing to work up and down, obviously waiting for a belated message from his sluggish mind to arrive there. Linnet, who wanted nothing more now than to flee to her sparsely-furnished chamber, was tempted to leave the baron standing where he was, still thinking of something to say. A lifetime spent with boys, though, forced patience upon her, and she waited the minute it took for the words to finally arrive at Stewart's mouth. 

"I was wondering—" Stewart paused, as though the words he had spoken so far would cause Linnet to flee, and then said, "I was wondering whether—whether you needed work." 

Right or right. With a feeling of deep gratitude that she had followed her training in patience, Linnet said, "Do you know of any work that might be available?" 

"I—I think so. That is, I'm not sure, but my guardians might be willing to give you work if you come and see them. They really are very kind, and I'll tell them how—how nice you are." 

If Linnet had been in a mood for amusement, she would have smiled at this speech. As it was, she said gravely, "Thank you. I very much appreciate your help, and I will come to your keep tomorrow." Then she turned— 

—and immediately regretted that she had done so. For there, spread before her, was the fire of evening: the scarlet shades of sunset burning the trees at the horizon, while above the flames, under the dark belly of night, were gilded clouds drifting toward the west. 

"Oh, Golden," Linnet heard herself whisper, "why didn't you keep your promise?" And then, without turning to see whether the baron had overheard this long-held thought, she stumbled forward into the evening, watching the fires of the sunset dissolve in the mist of her tears. 

 o—o—o

Crows mocked her in the trees as she grubbed under the fallen trunk for the piece of house-wood she wanted. It had been a good house, before the tree fell on it; the quality of the wood attested to that. She wondered for a moment, with bitter irony, what its rich owner would have thought if he had known how she would make use of his leavings. 

The crisp leaves under her knees crackled as she shifted her position, straining to pull out the plank. Her hand caught at one unvarnished edge, and she gave a yelp as several splinters drove into her palm. With a sigh, she sat back on her haunches, plucked out the splinters, and sucked at her hand as she surveyed the valley below her. 

Like black fish entering the broad entrance to a river, men and horses still poured into the valley from the mountain pass below the rising sun. Pulling her cloak further closed against the soft autumn wind, Linnet stared at the relatively tiny force that was meant to protect the town above her. If she had been any other woman, her thoughts would have been on the women and girls huddled behind the town walls, whose lives would end in slavery or death if the army below failed in its task. As it was, though, all that she could think as she reached down once more toward the plank was, "All those dark boys who will never grow to be golden." 

Several minutes later she extracted the plank from its grave, but she saw that it was hardly worth the effort, for the plank was cracked in the middle. Stubbornly refusing to acknowledge her failure, she rose wearily to her feet and began to stagger toward the wood-pile with her find. It was then that she saw the man. 

He was leaning against one of the wild apple trees nearby, with his cloak tossed back to reveal the scarlet clothes beneath. Fine gold along the edging matched the color of his hair, which shone like sun-gilded water. His body was slender and youthful, and his eyes held a blue brighter than the mid-morning sky. They sparkled now with laughter. 

When he spoke, it was with the accent she had heard many times in recent days. "Fair maiden," he said, "you seem somewhat burdened with your labor. Might I assist you in finishing your task, and then, perhaps, escort you to a place of greater leisure where, if your favor extends so far—" 

"You can save the rest of that speech." With an effort, Linnet turned and cast the plank onto the pile before her, then stood breathless for a moment, trying to calculate how many days it would take her to gather the remaining wood. 

"Ah." The man, whom she was no longer facing, seemed more amused than before. "You have heard this approach on a previous occasion, I believe." 

"On more than one occasion. The answer is no." 

"Perhaps if I were to approach your father in the proper fashion . .." 

"Go right ahead." Linnet pointed toward a fenced area further down the hill. "You'll find him there." 

"Ah," the man repeated. He came over to stand beside her, and she saw that his expression was now properly grave. "A soldier, perhaps?" 

"That's the trade which all the men in our barony lay claim to these days—those who are alive." 

The man nodded, continuing to stare down the hillside with his sparkling blue eyes. Then he looked her way suddenly, and as though he had indeed received a proper introduction from her father, he said, "My name is Golden." 

Linnet was wondering whether, if she wielded a plank against him, this gadfly would leave her alone, but she said with all the politeness her parents had taught her, "I am Linnet." 

Golden took the hand she offered him, but his gaze never left her face as he slowly raised her hand and kissed the back of her fingers in a manner that made her body tingle. "Well, fair maiden," he said. "I am deeply sorry to hear of— You _are_ a fair maiden, aren't you? I'm not wasting my time on someone's wife, am I? Not that I'm above that sort of courting if the pickings are lean." 

Linnet laughed then, turning her back on the cemetery below. "Fair and sixteen, as the song goes," she replied. "And you?" 

"Nineteen and golden, as the same song says." The young man offered her a sweeping bow. 

"Is your name really Golden?" 

"It's what the girls call me, anyway. I think it's quite apt, don't you?" 

"As long as one doesn't look under the surface," Linnet remarked dryly, and she walked past him to the remains of the fallen house. 

Silence drifted past her like mist. Linnet, unwilling to crawl on her knees in the presence of a stranger, pulled up a loose plank this time, one of the carved window frames. As she turned, she discovered that Golden had fallen back against the trunk of a tree and was clutching at his breast. 

"What's wrong?" she asked with alarm. 

"I'm nursing a wounded heart," he said in a matter-of-fact manner, standing straight once more. "I'd heard that women in the Barony of Dale End were hard to catch, but no one warned me that I'd encounter someone like you. Still, right or right." 

Linnet, heaving the heavy frame onto the woodpile, said with annoyance, "What does _that_ mean?" 

"Oh, it's an old phrase I found in a book once. It means that if the path you are travelling upon is blocked, you'll find another path that takes you to your destination. Unfortunately, some of the alternative roads make for a rough journey." He moved closer, his smile lighting the finely curved bones of his face like sunlight on the curves of sweet hillsides. "Speaking of rough work, do you mind telling me what you are doing?" 

"Building a house." 

"Ah. A maidenly activity indeed. Do you intend to live in this house alone, or are you seeking chambermates?" 

Linnet turned away from him and strode back to the ruins. "It's for the street-boys." 

"The street— Oh, you mean those dirty-faced thieves who stole my coin-purse yesterday. What have they done to deserve such honor?" 

Linnet knelt down. The earth was moist and flaky, but still did not yield its treasure easily. She had to pause from prying up a board before she had breath enough to say, "Most of them steal because they find theft more pleasant than having empty bellies. The others steal because they're bored—they have nowhere to play. I thought that if they had a house of their own where they could come on wet days, they might spend more time here than on the streets." 

"And your baron? What does he think of this idea?" 

"He thinks it's a foolish notion." The plank was determined to remain half-buried in the ground, where it had been covered in mud on the day that the storm-winds blew the tree down. Linnet tugged at the end of the board, vaguely aware that Golden had come over to stand by her. 

"So you ignore the advice of your betters. Well, that's one characteristic you and I share." 

Linnet gave one final, exasperated tug, then collapsed back onto the dirt and leaves. Pushing her hair away from her sweat-moist face, she looked up at Golden and said directly, "Who _are_ you? Are you a soldier?" 

Golden smiled. "With my accent, I'd hardly be a native, would I? Yes, I'm a soldier of sorts—though at the moment I'm with the army, rather than in the army." 

"What do you mean?" 

Golden held out his hand. Linnet, ignoring it, stumbled her way back up onto her feet. She rose too quickly and found herself swaying with dizziness, then moved hastily away from Golden's hand, which had grasped her elbow. 

Golden gave a low laugh before he turned and pointed toward the valley. "What do you see?" he asked. 

"Soldiers, of course." 

"How many soldiers? Four thousand? Five? My love, the enemy army—when it condescends to invade this valley—will have three times that number of troops. Your baron was a fool to start this war, and our baron was a greater fool to agree to defend your barony. But even if the rest of the world is going to play the fool, Golden is not. I'll not waste my life in a battle that can only end in defeat." 

Linnet turned her head to look at the young man beside her. His gay expression was gone, and his cerulean eyes were hooded by his low-drawn brows. He looked over at her, saying nothing. 

"If you desert the army," Linnet said, "your officer is likely to have you hanged." 

Suddenly his smile was back, warm as the late-morning sun. "Oh, I doubt that my father will execute his only son and heir," he said lightly. "In fact, I pointed out to him that it's only reasonable that I should be left alive after this battle, in order that I can inherit his money and spend it on my lovers." 

"And what did he think of this idea?" 

Golden's smile remained, though there was a tinge of darkness to his expression as he turned his back on the valley. "'Fool' was the kindest name he called me. I thought it better to keep away from him after that conversation. I'm staying with a man I met at a tavern in town; I suppose he's what street-boys turn into when they grow up, but I find him amusing. His house is—oh, about the size that I expect your house will be when you've finished building it. The rats complain because I take up the floor-space that used to be theirs, but we settled the matter by deciding that they could crawl over me any time that I'm sleeping." 

All this while, he had been prodding with his foot in an idle fashion. Suddenly, in a manner Linnet could not understand, the plank she had been pulling at rose out of the ground. With a smile and the lightest of tugs, Golden plucked the plank, walked over to Linnet, and held it out for her inspection. 

After a minute, the smile faded. Golden tossed the plank aside and said, "Mistress Linnet, you have a most disapproving look on your face. What should it matter to you if a single soldier is missing on the day that your barony is conquered?" 

"It doesn't," said Linnet, "but it matters to you." 

Golden took a step backwards and stared down at her for a long moment. The autumn wind rustled through his shimmering hair, and an apple plopped to the ground nearby. Finally he said, "I think that I will tell my father that I've found a better fighter for his troop, with a much keener blade than my own. In the meantime—" He took another step backwards. "In the meantime, I'm told that wine is a good cure for battle wounds. I don't suppose that I could persuade you to let me spend a little of my inheritance on you." 

Linnet cocked her head to the side, considering him. "Would you be willing to spend that money on the tools and nails that I'll need for this house?" 

A quirk of a smile appeared on Golden's face. "Would it further my suit if I did?" 

She hesitated before saying in a steady voice, "No." 

"An honest woman—I admire you all the more. Thank you, my love, but I think I will invest my money in causes that bring me greater return." He turned toward the sun, and for a moment Linnet's eyes were dazzled by the reflection of the light on his hair. Then he looked over his shoulder and smiled. 

"Right or right, my love," he said. "I'll find the right path to you in the end."


	2. Chapter 2

"He forswore the bargain." 

So heavily was the rain pounding against the tiles of the shop's roof that Linnet could barely hear the shopkeeper's flat words. Rhys, though, who was sitting at the far corner of the shop, kicking a basket of newly arrived herbs, raised his head quickly and said, "He shouted at me! That wasn't in the bargain!" 

"And how else was I to teach him the trade except by correcting him when he made mistakes?" The shopkeeper did not bother to raise his voice, or even to glance Rhys's way. "I took him in as I had promised, and I taught him to work, and then I find _this_." He held up the plum seed for Linnet's inspection. 

Linnet was finding it hard to concentrate on the shopkeeper's words, both because of the rain trickling down her back and because of that disconcerting darkness which still came upon her whenever she addressed men with blue eyes. "He has only worked for you for three days," she said, raising her voice above a grumble of thunder. "One defeat does not mean the end of the war. If your baron's army had given up so easily in defending my barony—" 

"That was fifteen years ago." The shopkeeper threw the plum seed into a cobwebbed corner, where it was promptly pounced upon by the shop cat. Rhys looked longingly in that direction, as though he would gladly have battled the cat for the seed, but he remained where he was, kicking the basket. 

"Fifteen years ago," the shopkeeper repeated, "and I am not prepared to pay the price Goldhollow paid for that victory. I'm not going to wait until half my goods are gone before I decide that boy can't be trusted. He had his chance; he ruined it." 

"I don't care!" Rhys jumped to his feet, and with one swift kick overturned the basket, so that the fresh herbs fell to the dirty floor. "I only agreed to work for you because of _her_ —your job is no necessity for me!" 

Linnet reached out and tried to grasp Rhys's wrist as he ran past her, but he thrust her hand away, saying, "Leave me alone! Don't come near me again!" 

In the pause that followed, the only sounds in the shop were the dull hammering of rain, the curses of the goods-deliverer as he beat his mule outside, and the pleased growls of the shopkeeper's cat. Then Stewart cleared his throat. 

He had been sitting so quietly all this time on a pile of firewood that Linnet had nearly forgotten him, especially as he seemed to be taking no notice of the conversation. As was often the case, his dull eyes gazed aimlessly at his surroundings, with little indication that he understood what he was seeing. For a moment now, as Linnet and the shopkeeper looked his way, he seemed tongue-tied. Then he said hesitantly, "If—if the boy only stole one plum, then you'll give Linnet back her gold, won't you?" 

"We made a bargain," the shopkeeper said tersely. "The boy forswore the bargain, so I keep the bond." 

"I see," said Linnet slowly, the cold of the rain instantly replaced by the hot blood rushing to her face. "Yes, I see. You receive three days' free labor from the boy, as well as the gold, and all that you lose in the bargain is one plum. Oh, that is a brave bargain indeed." 

The shopkeeper, his arms crossed, stared back at her with a hard expression, while nearby the cat continued to worry its victim. Stewart drew breath to speak, but Linnet's patience snapped in that moment, and she turned her back on the shopkeeper. "Come, Stewart," she said sharply, "we'll leave this fine gentleman with the knowledge of his honorable deeds." 

Stewart looked as though he would have liked to continue the conversation further, but he obediently scrambled off of the woodpile and trotted out the door after her. Without waiting for him, Linnet quickly turned onto the high street, striding along the wooden pavement with her chin high and her cloak hood flung back. The rain streamed across her face, hiding the one tear that had escaped her control. 

Stewart caught up with her as they reached the town fountain, where the street-boys usually gathered in clusters, hoping to pick the purses of thirsty townsmen. Today the fountainside was empty except for the goods-deliverer, whose tall cart was stuck in the mud, and who was trying, without success, to hire one of the street-boys to come out of the eaves and help him move the cart. Turning her back on the deliverer's curses, Linnet stared for a moment at the sparse crowds on the streets, with the street-boys running like rats from store to store, seeking a dry place where they would not be turned out. Then she started down the street again, in the direction in which she had originally come. 

"I'm sure that shopkeeper has a golden boy inside him," she said to Stewart as he stumbled in his haste to keep up with her, "but he's planted too far down for me to reach." 

"So what—what will you do? Will you help another boy instead?" 

Linnet shook her head, sending sprays of water against Stewart, who hastily backed away. "I haven't given up on Rhys," she said. "There may be some way in which I can help his family. Perhaps I can find a better job for his father." 

"I—I—" Stewart paused and tried again. "I was wondering whether it would help if—if I were to give them my allowance. My guardians grant me a little money at the beginning of each month, and I've been spending it on trifles like buying flowers for the maidservants who are too ugly to have suitors. But—but I don't think they like the flowers anyway. Because they come from me, I mean. And—and—" He swallowed and made a third try at speaking. "And my guardians give me too much food—that shows, I suppose." He looked down briefly at his corpulent figure. "So I could save half my meals for Rhys's family. Maybe that would help." 

Linnet turned to look at Stewart. He made a comical sight in the rain, with his wisps of hair plastered flat against his round head. Some remaining color amongst the white turned the hair dark, like weeds. The rain, Linnet noticed absentmindedly, covered his ever-present drool. 

"What would your guardians say?" 

"Oh, I wouldn't tell them. I—I— They're very kind to me, but sometimes they don't understand— It's my fault, really. For—for example, I talked to my guardians yesterday and told them I thought they should give more work to the poorer people of our barony. They are overfond of giving work only to decent people, who need the money least." 

"And what did your guardians think of this idea?" 

"I—I don't think they quite understood. They were very nice but—but they said no. I'm not very good at explaining things," he concluded with an apologetic expression. 

"It's not your fault." Linnet raised her voice above the sound of the goods-deliverer's protesting mule, who, by the sound of it, was being driven out of the mud-puddle through use of the deliverer's stick. "I've had no better luck with your guardians. They are indeed kind people, but they have no understanding of what the poor families of this barony endure. They haven't visited the people's houses, as you have." Linnet looked over at Stewart again. He was rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. She smiled and added, "You should have charge of your inheritance instead of them. You'd manage your money in a much wiser manner." 

"Oh, no." Stewart shook his head. "There are some things I can do and some things I can't. I'm no good with money. I—I'm not very good at remembering things, you see." 

"Sometimes I wish I wasn't either," Linnet murmured. A brawny street-boy was passing them; Linnet smiled at him and was rewarded with a black look in return. Odo, the chief of the street-boys, was skilled at his chosen trade—his success with the pullet was one of a long line of thieveries. He was also cocksure, sly, and highly suspicious of Linnet for her interference with his companions. 

"What—what do you mean?" asked Stewart. 

Turning aside from her true thoughts, Linnet said, "I only seem to remember my defeats. There have been so many over the years. Once, when I was quite young, I decided to build a house for the street-boys in my town, so that they would have a place to play. It worked at first—and then some of the boys decided to turn it into a place to sell stolen goods. Our baron had the house torn down, and he was very angry at me. He called me a fool." 

"He—he was the fool, for not trying to help the boys. At least you try to help them—and you've had victories over the years, haven't you? The boy who became a scribe, the boy who married and named his daughter after you—" 

"Small victories," Linnet said with a sigh, her voice nearly lost under the renewed rattle of the deliverer's cart at the other end of the street. "Such small victories I've won. And most of my battles end in defeat; I sometimes think I do more harm than good. . . . No, that's putting more worth to my deeds than they deserve. Probably my work has no effect at all." 

"But—but even if it doesn't, at least you've tried," said Stewart, slowing behind her as he slipped slightly on the muddy pavement. "And you—you know you've done the right things, so—" He stopped, and Linnet paused to let him catch up with her. After a moment, apparently deciding that he had started down the wrong path, he said, "It's the little victories, the tiny victories, that win the war." 

"Yes, I suppose so," said Linnet in a voice as dull as the rain's patter. "Like the final battle in the war fifteen years ago. The shopkeeper was right, though: the price of that victory was too high. So many soldiers were wounded, so many. And so many golden boys never left that battlefield." 

Stewart's mouth was working up and down in its usual, uncertain manner. Linnet, used by now to the slow manner in which his thoughts formed, waited silently, wiping water from her face. But the words were never formed. At that moment a scream travelled through the town like a crack of white lightning. 

Linnet whirled around at once, with Stewart belatedly following, but at that moment the rain thickened, and she could not see more than a few paces ahead. For the space of three breaths she stood where she was, trying to read the sound of people's rising voices at the other end of the high street. Then a dark figure emerged suddenly from the rain: it was Odo. 

"Mistress Linnet!" he cried. "Oh, mistress, come quickly—it's Rhys." 

Gathering her skirts in one hand, she started forward—and almost immediately slipped on the mud, falling hard onto the pavement. Scrambling up, she began running forward again, without looking to see whether Stewart was behind her. 

She would have found it hard, in the end, to reach her destination, so thick was the crowd in the street now, but Odo, with furious impatience, elbowed aside the gawking onlookers, creating a path for Linnet. In the midst of the crowd was a space, and in this space were but four objects: the goods-deliverer, his mule, his cart, and Rhys, lying half-buried in the mud under the cart. 

All that she could see of him at the start were his legs, which were a hands-breadth away from the foremost cartwheel and were twisted at an odd angle. The cart was high above the ground, though, and Linnet crawled underneath as Odo said in a voice close to breaking, "He ran in front of the cart as it was passing—it's a trick I taught him, to help him escape his pursuers. He slipped in the mud, though, and went right under the wheel." 

In the shadow of the cart's belly, under the dark cover of the rain, Linnet could scarcely see the object that lay there. Her hand, groping, found what she was looking for: Rhys's hand, with the stolen peach tumbling from his palm. His face, cold in the cold mud. His faint heartbeat. 

"He lives," she reported over her shoulder as she began to crawl backwards. Behind her, Odo gave a half-suppressed sob. 

"Then get him moved!" The angry voice belonged to that of the deliverer. "It's no fault of mine that he darted in front of me, and I've wasted half a day already, what with this rain." 

Linnet ignored him; she was crouched once more in the rain, gingerly feeling the boy's legs. "He needs a doctor," she said, more to herself than anyone else. "Oh, sweet curses—I've no money!" 

"Take this." For a moment, Linnet ignored the voice, as well as the touch on her hand. Then she felt something thrust into her palm, and she looked up. 

"Take it!" urged the donor. "That will pay for the doctor, won't it? You go fetch him, and—and I'll stay here with Rhys." 

Linnet stared blankly at him for a moment, as the crowd began to lose interest and drift away. Only a cluster of shivering street-boys remained where they were, stubbornly resisting the efforts of the barony's soldiers to clear the streets. The goods-deliverer was talking to one of the soldiers. After a moment, the soldier shrugged and turned away, calling to his companions to leave the scene. 

Linnet looked down at her hand, folded around the hard object like petals guarding seeds. Then her hand, seemingly of its own volition, bloomed open, and she saw Stewart's jewel-chain lying there. 

"Move him!" shouted the deliverer from above her. "Move him, or I'll go my way regardless." 

Linnet rose slowly to her feet, her gaze fixed on the deliverer, the jewel once more hidden in her hand. "If I wasn't sure that there was a golden boy inside you," she said through clenched teeth, "I'd beat you from head to toe with that stick of yours." Then she turned and began running toward the doctor with the urgency of a soldier making a charge against the enemy. 

And so it was many minutes later before she saw Stewart again. When she did, it was in a scene so remarkable that even the townspeople had returned to the cart and were making murmured remarks about their poor baron's wits. For though they had seen much foolishness over the years from their ruler, never before had the Baron of Goldhollow gone so far as to sit in a mud-puddle with a street-boy's head in his lap, defying the deliverer in a stammering voice to drive his cart over them both. 

 o—o—o

"No, you don't steal the goods!" Linnet resisted the impulse to reach out and shake the boy who had so helpfully offered this suggestion. "You ask politely whether he will donate the goods, and if he says no, you move on to the next shop." 

Bevis, with the wisdom of one who knows the ways of the world, looked up at her with eyes squinted against the rain. "What if they all say no?" 

"Then you ask the shopkeepers I've asked, and I'll ask the shopkeepers you've asked. Eventually, they'll become too weary from our asking to say no." 

Bevis gave a broad grin then. Still clutching the apple that Linnet had bribed him with, he ran down the street to the first shop. Linnet watched him leave, wondering whether he would keep his half of the bargain, and then she turned and saw Golden. 

He was standing under the eaves of a tavern, talking with a scrawny man in a shabby cloak. The man glanced her way and said something to Golden, who laughed before clapping the man on the back and shoving him through the tavern doorway. 

Golden did not follow the scrawny man, though, but turned and regarded Linnet with a smile that held more warmth than a noonday sun. After a moment, seeing that she did not respond to this smile by moving forward, he flicked his cloak's hood over his head and walked forward to join her in the rain. 

"Is that your friend?" she asked when he had reached her side of the muddy street. 

"The one I'm staying with? Yes, that's Oliver. He looks like a street-boy, doesn't he?" Golden leaned back against the shop window, seemingly oblivious of the water pouring down on Linnet from the gutters above. 

Linnet shifted her position to be out of the worst of the downpour. "What were you talking about?" 

"The foolish ways of women," Golden replied promptly. "You do realize, I hope, that the town's shopkeepers are planning to petition their baron against the activities of a certain beggar-woman." 

She saw his eyes dance like sunlight on blue water, and her chin rose. "I'm only asking for a small amount of goods from each of them. They can easily spare the merchandise." 

"In the midst of war? I think not. What little they have has mainly been sent down to the army." Golden pulled his hood further forward. Underneath, his face was dry and his smile was bright. "Besides, why should they contribute to your foolish scheme? Don't you realize that when the enemy swarms up this hill to lay siege to the town walls, the first house they will see and destroy is the one you're trying to build?" 

Linnet was beginning to wonder whether she looked as ridiculous as she felt, peering at Golden through rain-drenched eyelashes and feeling her hair cling to her cheeks. "And where will you be, Goldhollow soldier, when that happens?" she asked in the honeyed voice she reserved for shopkeepers. 

Golden raised his eyebrows, as though her sweetness was a tactic more alarming than he had expected. He replied without hesitation, though. "Escaping through the back hills to Goldhollow. Oliver and I have worked out a plan to ensure that at least two people in this town are left alive at the end of this war. I don't suppose"—his smile deepened—"that you would care to join us in our flight and help me to spend my father's inheritance." 

Linnet's gaze was drawn to the end of the street, where Bevis was emerging from a shop, empty-handed but for the apple he was munching on. He hesitated, glanced up the street at Linnet, and then disappeared into the next shop. "Would your plan extend as far as bringing this town's street-boys with you?" she asked Golden. 

"Would I receive any reward from you if I did?" 

For a moment, she felt a pain deep in her chest, but he released her from her torment quickly, laughing and saying, "No, that's not a fair test, is it? You'd give your honor in exchange for those boys' lives, I think, but I know well enough that I'd lose out in the bargain: I'd win your body but not your heart. Besides, the answer to your question is no: my plan doesn't extend to dragging along a pack of dirty-faced boys. Goldhollow has enough of them as it is." 

She stared up at his shining locks and his dry face and his golden smile, and she said, "Yes, I would say that Goldhollow has more than enough dark boys." 

Curses drifted through the cold rain, coming from the shop that Bevis had entered. He emerged a moment later with a sour look on his face and flung the apple core into the mud. For a moment, he stared at it, and then, not looking Linnet's way, he entered the next shop. 

Golden had been silent all this while. His smile had disappeared. His eyes looked as sharp as lances now, and Linnet had a sudden vision of what he must be like on the battlefield. She found herself swallowing. When he spoke again, though, his voice was light. 

"Another path blocked," he said. "Well, Mistress Linnet, no one can say that you pave an easy road to your heart. I think that I will leave you to make your way down these muddy streets while Oliver and I drink to your good health, and I plot which route to take next." And as she watched, he strode across the streets to the tavern doorway, pulled down the hood from his glowing hair, and disappeared from her view.


	3. Chapter 3

The wind thundered down the flanks of the surrounding hills and made its attack on the ramshackle cottage lying on the outskirts of the town. With a furious whistle, it forced its way through the cracks in the warped wood and spun around the room, touching with its icy finger all that it passed. 

Linnet pulled her cloak closer to her body. She was standing near the doorway of the tiny cottage, so as to be out of the way of the harried woman who was trying to scrub clothes at the same time that she kept three boisterous girl-children from pulling down the clothes drying from the rafters. The older boys, having crammed into their mouths what little breakfast there was, had fled the cottage at dawn, one boy to help his father gather rags from the rubbish, the other two to find their fortunes on the streets. 

The fourth boy remained; he was lying on a cot in the corner of the room, shivering. As Linnet watched, Stewart pulled off his cloak and placed it over the thin blanket. 

Rhys took no notice. He was saying, "The doctor says my legs will never mend." 

Stewart nodded as he sat down again on the edge of the bed. He was dressed this day in sober grey cloth that matched the dullness of his eyes. Beside him was a table holding the bowl of apricots he had brought . Behind him, an elderly nurse, who had been hired with the remainder of the profit from his jewel, sat nodding in her sleep. 

"Everyone acts as though nothing's wrong," said Rhys. "I _hate_ that! It's as though they're pretending I can still walk. It's—it's like my legs died and nobody is mourning them." 

Stewart nodded again, then wiped his mouth clean with his sleeve. 

"They pretend nothing's wrong, but they pity me," Rhys continued. "I hate that even more. I hear them whispering about me, saying what a poor boy I am—how terrible my life will be from now on. It's awful! I'd rather that they hated me than that they pitied me." 

"They already hate you," Stewart said softly. 

Rhys's mouth hung open. It was clear that he had not expected this response. "They do?" 

Stewart nodded. "They hate you because they hate having to feel sorry for you. And if you tell them how terrible your life is now, they'll hate you even more." 

Rhys considered this for a moment as the wind whistled past him, and his mother gave a shrill cry of anger at one of the children. Then he said, "But my life _is_ terrible. I can't walk, I can't run—" 

"Listen. No—no, listen to me. Is there anything you wish you hadn't done in your life? Anything you regret?" 

Rhys's gaze switched for a moment over to Linnet, shivering by the doorway, before he looked quickly back at Stewart. "Of course. There's lots of things I wish I hadn't done. And—and there's lots of things I should have done and didn't." 

"So do them now." 

Stewart's stammer, Linnet noticed, had almost entirely disappeared. She was not surprised. Gradually, she had come to realize that his stumbling speech was due less to his slow wits than to his acute shyness. Only around boys—"around other boys" was how Linnet always thought of it—did his timidness ease. 

Rhys had been biting his lip and twisting the cloth of Stewart's cloak into a knot. Now he said, "If I do them, will people stop pitying me?" 

"No. They'll always feel sorry for you. They'll always whisper about how terrible your life is. But—but _you'll_ know they're wrong. _You'll_ know that your life is better than it was before." 

Rhys began gnawing on his knuckle, and Stewart drew the cloak up further against the boy's chest. Finally Rhys said, "In a few years, whatever I do or say, everyone will have forgotten what I was like when I had my legs. It will be as though my legs never lived. I _hate_ that! I hate thinking of when everyone will think of me only as the poor crippled boy and nobody will remember what I was like when I could run—" 

"I'll remember." Stewart's voice was very soft, so soft that Linnet was surprised when Rhys halted his speech and stared at the face of the portly baron. For a long moment, Rhys searched Stewart's face with his eyes. A bit of drool started down from Stewart's mouth, but the boy seemed not to notice. 

"You promise?" he said at last. 

"I—I promise," said Stewart. 

As though that were a signal, the nodding nurse gave a snort, then opened her eyes and stared vaguely at the scene before her. She rose from her chair and bustled forward, clucking as she came. 

"Do you want to wear this poor boy out with all your talking?" she said, waving Stewart away as though he were a pestering insect. "Away with you now! Let the boy rest." 

"Oh, I—I'm sorry. I didn't—I didn't mean to—" 

Linnet hid a smile as Stewart stammered out his apologies, backing hastily away from the bed. She swung open the door, saving him from smacking into it with his backside, and then, once the door was closed again, began walking with him toward the baron's keep. 

"I'm glad you offered to talk with him," she said, raising her voice above the howling wind. "I wouldn't have known what to say. I tried to persuade his mother to talk with him, but she's so worried about keeping the three youngest from falling into the fire and the three oldest from being arrested by the soldiers that she has no time for the middle child." 

Stewart was walking with his head bowed, perhaps concerned that he would stumble if he looked up. He was shivering, Linnet noticed, and she remembered that his cloak was back in the cottage. 

"I—I remember when my mother died," he said finally. "It was just a few weeks after my father died. People told me that she died of grief over my father, but—but I heard them whispering that she died of heartache over me." 

Linnet drew in her breath. But Stewart, who had a tendency not to notice when other people were trying to speak, continued, "I don't remember her death very well. It's hard for me sometimes to—" 

"Yes," said Linnet. "Stewart, if your memory is so poor, do you think it was wise for you to promise Rhys—?" 

"But I remember her dying because—because I heard my guardians arguing over what to do with the extra income." 

"Extra income?" Linnet looked over at Stewart. His wisps of white hair were blowing in his eyes, and his clothes were rippling across his body like mole-mounds on a hillside. 

Stewart nodded without looking up. "You see, my great-grandfa— No, I think it was my great-great-grandfather— Well, he was very much in love with his wife, and he hated how she was forced to come to him when she needed money, so he changed the laws of our barony so that the baron's wife would always have an allowance of her own, from the time she was married to the time she died. It's a very big allowance, almost a quarter of the keep's annual income. That's how much my wife will receive when—when I marry." 

Linnet stumbled and nearly landed in the gooseberry bush growing next to the town wall. She told herself not to be a fool and said carefully, "Will your guardians allow you to marry?" 

"Oh, yes—oh, yes. You see, they want me to father an heir so that he can take over the barony when he grows up. So they'll let me marry anyone I want; they said so when—when I asked them last night." 

Linnet's heart was now pounding in her throat. It took all her effort to say, "Stewart! You don't mean—" 

"Listen," said Stewart, twirling suddenly and nearly falling off-balance as he did so. "No—no, listen to me, Linnet. I've tried everything to persuade my guardians to give you money for the street-boys. And—and now they've found out that I've been selling my books to earn money for you, and they won't let me do that any more. The only thing I can think to do is marry you, and then—and then you'll have all that money, and you can spend it as you please." 

Linnet stood as still as a door-post, feeling the wind buffet her in great slaps, and thinking to herself that she ought to have been prepared for this moment. In a voice that seemed not to be her own, she said, "So you told your guardians I'd provide you with an heir." 

"Linnet, you mustn't think— Truly, I'm not— We—we— On the first night, we'd have to sleep in the same room so that my guardians would think that we were con—con—" 

"Consummating the marriage," Linnet said in a flat voice. 

"Yes. But—but it would only be for show, and after that, we'd sleep in separate chambers, and we'd just be friends, the way we are now. I'd never—I'd never touch you. I swear to you, I'd never do that." 

Linnet's throat was beginning to ache. She swallowed the hardness in it and said rapidly, "Stewart, you think I don't care for you, but it's not true—" 

"I know," said Stewart softly. "I know you're not like those maidservants who threw my flowers in the rubbish. I know you don't despise me; I'd never ask you to do this if I thought you despised me. But I'm not that much of a fool, Linnet. I know—I know that you love Golden." 

There was a pregnant pause, and then Linnet said in a dull voice, "Golden is dead." 

"But—but you still love him. I know that. And I wouldn't ever take that away from you. He's—he's too important to you. I _want_ you to love him, Linnet. I want you to love him and remember him, and all I want besides that is to be able to help you with the street-boys. Please—please, will you—?" His voice drifted to a halt, and he stood with his mouth open and his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides. For a moment more, he stared at her with a helpless expression on his face. A bit of drool at the corner of his mouth was picked up by the wind and flung away. 

Linnet felt as though she was heaving an armful of wood up to a high place. Her heart continued to pound against her body. Finally she said, in a voice that held no emotion, "I'll marry you." 

"You—you will?" Stewart's mouth, which had been wide open before, now hung at so low a point that it seemed it would meet with his protruding belly. He made a sudden movement, and for one terrible moment Linnet feared that he would touch her and that she would burst into tears. But he merely backed away from her rapidly, saying, "I'll—I'll go tell my guardians. They'll be—they'll be very pleased." And he began running toward the keep, stumbling as he went, while Linnet looked after him and felt the wind dry the moisture at the corners of her eyes. 

 o—o—o

From the far end of the valley, where chain-mailed soldiers guarded the neck of the pass, came the faint sound of sword clashes. At the near end, at the foot of the hill on which the barony's town perched, forge-fires roared, throwing up sparks toward the afternoon sun. But here on the hillside, the clang of metal being shaped into weapons was muted by the sound of irregular hammering and boys' laughter. 

Linnet, struggling to raise a pile of wood to the small boy perched on the finished wall of the house, felt her heart pound against her body and sweat run down her face. The moisture was chilled immediately by the wind howling down the length of the valley like an invading army. All around her, the half-built house shuddered, and she wondered whether she would have to redo all her work. She wondered too whether the boys would return if the house collapsed. With this dark thought in mind, she turned and saw Golden. 

He was standing at the doorpost of the house, with his right leg resting on a woodpile and his right arm draped lightly over that leg. His cloak was thus thrown open, showing that he was once again wearing his scarlet clothes. His gaze was fixed upon the rapidly dwindling pile of bread and wild apples, to which the boys would make forays from time to time. Then his gaze turned in the direction of Linnet, and she saw that his blue eyes were sparkling with amusement. 

"You're back," she said flatly, and turned to take hold of the shuddering frame on which the small boy was crawling. 

"Of course," said Golden from behind her. "'Three times he courted her, twice she said no'—according to the song, you'll accept my third proposal." His footsteps approached her, and with a sharp voice she called Bevis over to take her place. He came reluctantly, with his mouth still full of crumbs, and grabbed hold of the frame. Linnet turned to go, only to find her path blocked by Golden. "It does seem a bit crowded here, though," he added lightly. "Perhaps we could walk up the hillside a bit." 

"Perhaps you could walk down the hillside," she replied, without bothering to gesture toward the army camp. 

"Ah, no, I think that would not be wise. I might find myself doing something foolish, like whetting my sword-blade." Golden turned his head from side to side, looking at the boys hammering and carrying wood and fighting over the remaining food. "Well, you've persuaded the street-boys to strain their muscles for once. I'll acknowledge that as an accomplishment." 

"It's called work," said Linnet, moving past him. "You might try it some day, as a change of pace." 

She reached the doorpost, picked up her hammer, and had pounded three nails into it before Golden's silence lured her into looking back his way. He was leaning against one of the walls, which looked ready to collapse under his weight, and he was clutching his heart. 

"Wounded once more, and in the same spot," he said with a sigh. "I fear that the next wound will be mortal. No, truly, mistress," he said, straightening his body in the moment before the wall would have collapsed, "you would be surprised at how much work I do. I'm hard taxed, for example, to keep track of all my lovers." 

"So I hear," said Linnet, and turned her back on him once more. 

The fight over the remaining food had spread now to most of the boys; Linnet could hear the scuffles and cries and laughter behind her. The boy who was holding the doorpost for her scurried off to join the fun. Amidst all the noise, Linnet did not hear Golden approach. She only became aware of him as she turned to pick up more nails and saw his grave face. 

"Ah," he said. "You have heard that tale. Well, Barbara was a mistake." 

"A mistake!" said Linnet, flinging the hammer at him. "A woman tries to kill herself out of love for you, and you call her a mistake!" 

The hammer hit Golden full in the chest, but he did not so much as flinch. He simply stooped and picked up the hammer, then offered the handle to her. "I meant the mistake was mine," he said quietly. "I made her promises, and I ought not to have done that." 

Linnet pulled the hammer from his grasp with fury. "So you think you ought not to have made any promises at all." 

"Better that, than to have made promises I cannot keep." 

"You could still marry her," Linnet pointed out. 

"And how happy do you think she would be, married to a man whose heart is given to another?" 

Linnet, in the process of hammering a nail into the frame, looked over at Golden. His smile was gone, and it seemed to her that in some way this caused his whole body to dim, as though his shining hair had grown dull with evening shadows. His gaze was fixed firmly on hers. 

"I don't want—" she started. 

"Yes, I know. You don't want my heart—or rather, you want it only so that you can trample it to pieces. Will you move to the side, please?" 

Confused, Linnet did so; nor did she resist as he took the hammer and nails from her hand. As he began pounding the nails into the doorpost, though, she said firmly, "You can't win me with a little hammering." 

"Oh, I know that." Golden's voice was light again, and when he turned his head, his smile was back. "But for some strange reason, I like my women to have beautiful bodies, and yours won't last long unless you secure this frame there—and there." He stepped back to admire his handiwork. 

Relieved to be back on a well-travelled path, she said, "So you choose your women on the basis of how beautiful they are." 

"Of course," Golden said, tossing the hammer back to her as he smiled. "I like a pleasant-looking face, don't you?" 

Linnet, struggling to keep the hammer from falling from her grasp, said, "It's of no matter to me. If it was—" She stopped herself in time, but could not prevent her gaze from flying up toward Golden and his wind-swept locks of hair falling over his face like rays from the sun. 

Golden's smile deepened. "My love, I believe that's the first compliment you've ever given me. I'm more encouraged than ever that you'll look with favor upon my latest suit. I don't suppose, fair maiden, that you'd be willing to send away these dirty-faced boys." He gestured toward the crowd of boys now breaking up, happily bruised, and besmeared with the remaining food. 

"They may look dark outside," said Linnet in a quiet voice that would not reach them, "but inside each one is a golden—" 

"Yes, so I hear from all the shopkeepers you've worn down. My standards for proof are somewhat higher than theirs, however. You know that these boys only come here for the food." 

As though in response to this remark, Bevis appeared at Linnet's elbow, saying, "It's too windy to work today. We'll come back tomorrow." 

Linnet, taking the quickest of glances at the empty food pile, said wearily, "Very well. Come back tomorrow, and I'll have more supplies then. —But come early!" she cried as the boys made an immediate retreat, scrambling up the hillside without looking back. 

"Ah," said Golden, pulling off his cloak and dropping it onto the woodpile. "That is better. Now, then—" He took a step toward Linnet, who immediately withdrew, holding the hammer between herself and Golden, as though it were a weapon of war. With a soft laugh, Golden stopped where he was and said, "I've been thinking about this dilemma of yours, the problem you're having in raising supplies. It seems a shame to me that I should be spending all of my inheritance alone, while you're scraping together a few rusty nails and some hunks of stale bread. So it occurred to me that, if you really want to help the street-boys, you could marr—" 

He stopped. The wind, renewing its howl, swallowed the sound of the boys' laughter near the town wall, while the forge-men paused momentarily in their hammering. Only in the distance, quite faintly, could Linnet hear the sound of battle. 

"No," said Golden slowly. "No, I don't think that's the right path after all." He took a step back from where Linnet still stood, her hands white-knuckled upon the hammer, and her face hard as stone. Reaching backwards, Golden scooped the cloak into one arm, saying, "How odd. I was so very sure that the third path was the right one to your love." 

"Perhaps there is no right path," said Linnet flatly. 

"Oh, I think there must be." Golden's voice was still slow. "In fact, I suspect it's lying right in front of me, and I'm just too blind to see what it is. I think . . ." His voice drifted to a halt as he took another step backwards and stared at her with his brows drawn low with puzzlement. "I think perhaps I should do some thinking. And I think perhaps I should leave you alone until I've done that thinking." And with an odd gesture, like an army surrendering the field to its enemy, he wheeled around and began walking slowly toward the town.


	4. Chapter 4

Linnet was not sure which was worse: waiting impatiently for the cheerful wedding party to leave, or waiting with dread for the moment that they left. Once they were gone, of course, she would be alone with Stewart. 

Stewart's bedchamber, which she had never before seen, was housed at the top of one of the keep's square towers: a tower built for peacetime rather than war, with broad windows whose shutters were opened wide to allow in the autumn eventide air. The chamber was decorated quite plainly, like a child's room, and only the reddish sunlight falling on the tiles gave beauty to the room. 

Stewart was red as well: red with the crimson clothes of the bridegroom. These had obviously been made for a much thinner man, but he had somehow managed to squeeze into without breaking any seams. Linnet, dressed in maiden yellow, felt uncomfortable whenever she looked his way; memories pressed her too sharply at such moments. If only she did not have to continue smiling at the well-wishers, and was allowed a moment to go cry in a quiet corner. But it was her own fault for fiercely holding back all her tears during the days before the wedding; now it was too late. Too late to change to another path. 

Stewart himself looked miserable. This had taken her by surprise until she realized that he must have overheard at the marriage ceremony the whispers of the townspeople, scandalized that their childish baron should act like a man. Linnet felt like laughing then and asking them what they expected, if they refused to acknowledge to Stewart's face that he was anything but a normal man. At least she could give him that much honesty, she thought. 

The wedding party left the room, making the usual jokes but with some hesitation, as though finding it hard to envision what would take place next. Linnet, remembering his promise of honesty, allowed her smile to drop like a leaf from a tree, and faced Stewart with a sober expression. She became aware that he was addressing her. 

". . . and I—I couldn't ask my guardians to put a second bed in here, because they would have suspected something, but I'll just—I'll just lie over in the corner here. That wolf-skin is really quite thick." He gazed at her with an anxious expression, as though he were prepared to sleep on the window-ledge if the corner should prove too near. 

She felt a sharp pain go through her then, deeper than any sword could reach, and she turned swiftly away from her husband. She faced the west window . . .   
 And there, spread wide like blood on a battlefield, was the scarlet banner of the evening sky, and above it the tassels of gold hanging from the underside of the clouds. 

Her breath stopped. Without knowing how it had happened, she found herself standing beside the waist-high window, clutching one of the shutters with a grip that drove her fingernails into the wood. 

Gradually, she became aware that Stewart was standing on the other side of the window. He had carefully positioned himself more than an arm's length from her, but one of his hands was swinging at his side, as though he might reach out and touch her at any moment. Feeling that she must account for her behavior, Linnet said, "It looked like this on the eve of the final battle." 

"Yes, I—I know." 

Stewart's face was flushed under the light of the setting sun, and his hair had turned a ridiculous pink. He was biting his lip, as though even his few words were out of place. 

"I forgot." Linnet said after staring blankly at him. "You were there as well, weren't you? Did you watch the battle?" 

Stewart considered this difficult question for a moment, then nodded his head. "It—it was over so quickly. As soon as we killed their baron, it was finished. But there were so many soldiers lying on the battlefield afterwards, soldiers and horses all writhing and crying out. I—I was so scared at first that I wanted to run away. I started walking through the field, hoping that I could help someone, but—but I couldn't. I wasn't of any use, really, and I felt helpless." 

"I was at the hospital." Linnet turned her gaze back toward the scarlet flame of the sun. Higher up in the sky, the golden clouds were beginning to turn dull grey. "Our soldiers had set it up at the foot of the hill, in case we should win the battle and have the opportunity to tend our wounded. The first soldiers who came in were the last ones to attack: the street-boys. About half of them survived, which made them much luckier than the other soldiers. I held their hands, and listened to them tell how terrible the battle was, and watched them die. . . . Every now and then I'd look up and see great fires burning in the fields. There were so many dead that the remaining army officers were worried that pestilence would break out, so they were burning the bodies as quickly as they could be identified. I remember how the fire dazzled my eyes, and I looked down at the boy beside me, and I saw gold. But Bevis was dead." Linnet stared for a moment more as the last flicker of sun dipped below the horizon. Then she added, "At one point, all of the doctors dashed off, leaving the boys crying out for them. I asked someone what had happened, and they said that the Baron of Goldhollow had been brought in from the field. I remember thinking that if the doctors put a tenth of the effort into doctoring the poor that they spent in doctoring the rich, they'd be able to save all of the boys—" 

Linnet stopped and looked swiftly over at Stewart, who was standing silently, his hand still swinging. "I'm sorry," she said quickly. "That was your father, wasn't it? I heard that he was sent back to Goldhollow in hopes that he would recover. I suppose that he died?" 

"Yes," said Stewart in a very low voice. "My father died." He licked his lips and added, "But so many soldiers died. It wasn't just my father." 

"Yes," said Linnet. "Yes." Her eyes were fixed on the horizon, which had turned a dull red. Most of the sky was black now, darker than smoke or earth. She heard herself say, "I was at the hospital when Oliver found me and told me that Golden was dead." 

The fire-red of the sky had turned to ash grey. Linnet could barely see Stewart's jaw hanging slack. She turned abruptly and walked through the darkness toward the eastern side of the tower. She sensed rather than saw the great bed with its covers pulled back in preparation for their arrival, a nine-branched candelabra by the bedside, the trunks that had once held the books Stewart had sold, and a looking-glass lying on its face on the top of one of the trunks. She drew near to the window which was soft with torchlight and music. 

Below the tower, scattered across the courtyard of the keep, revellers continued the marriage festival. Darting between the adults were small shapes: the street-boys, whom Linnet, in her first act as mistress of the keep, had insisted be allowed to join the festivities. The boys were throwing apples at each other and laughing at the consternation of Stewart's guardians. In the torchlight, Linnet could pick out the prone figure of Rhys, whom Stewart had carried to the courtyard. He was tossing an apple toward Odo and laughing with the rest. 

The gold and red torchlight dazzled Linnet's eyes. She turned her back on it and sat down on the step beneath the window, so that she was surrounded now on three sides by the window alcove. Stewart was still standing where she had left him. His voice was more faint than usual as he said, "Ol—Oliver?" 

"Golden's friend." Linnet closed her eyes, seeing once more the face of the scrawny man. "He went looking for Golden after the battle and found him on the field. Golden was so close to death that one of our soldiers was about to give him the mercy-stroke and toss him into the fire. Oliver stopped him, and he stayed with Golden until the end. He said that it didn't take long." 

Stewart, evidently uncomfortable with Linnet's words, walked over to the candelabra, and in a painstaking effort to overcome his usual clumsiness, he carefully lit all of the candles in the branches. As the chamber brightened with light, Linnet closed her eyes once more and said, "Oliver talked later to a soldier who had seen what happened. Golden was in the cavalry, and he helped to make the initial charge. The soldier beside him was killed with a spear and toppled over onto Golden's horse, which reared up. Golden fell, and was trampled by the horses behind him." Linnet's hands tightened into fists. "He was killed by his own people; he never even had a chance to draw his sword against the enemy. Oliver said that he was nothing more than a broken body after the battle." 

She saw red before her eyes, and realized that it came from the light outside her sight. Opening her eyes, she saw Stewart standing before her, with the candelabra in his hands. Stooping awkwardly, he placed the candles on a trunk nearby as Linnet said, in a dull voice, "I asked Oliver whether Golden had spoken before he died. Oliver said that Golden only spoke once, to ask for water. . . . I suppose it was selfish for me to hope that, amidst all his pain, Golden would think of me." 

The music and shouting and laughter continued below. The evening sky turned black. Stewart, standing at the entrance of the archway, said, "But—but he did." 

There was no room for breath in the space that followed; no room for anything but for Linnet to stare up at him with her heart pounding. Then she said, "You saw him. Sweet curses, you saw him after the battle. Oh, Stewart—" On impulse, she reached out and pulled him stumbling into the archway. 

He sat down beside her on the step, but his head was bowed, and he did not look her way as he said, "I—I didn't recognize who he was at first. I was walking amidst all the bodies, and I saw a townsman stooped over one of the soldiers. He looked up at me and said, 'Here, you guard Golden while I fetch water. Don't let anyone put a dagger through him.' And then he raced off, before I could tell him that—that I wasn't the best person to be a guard. I nearly ran away, but—but Golden had his eyes closed and wasn't moving, so I sat down beside him. . . ." 

The candlelight flickered in the alcove, lightly brushing Stewart's head, which was still bowed. "He started moaning," Stewart said, "and then he started mumbling, and then he started crying out. 'Linnet!' he said. "Linnet!' I didn't know what to do, so I—I leaned over and said, 'Who's Linnet?' And he mumbled, 'Was going to marry Linnet,' and then he opened his eyes. It—it was like the sun had risen, because his eyes were so sharply blue. And he stared straight at me, and said, 'Take care of Linnet.' And then his eyes closed, and the townsman arrived back with the water, and I went away. And—and I forgot. I'm sorry." 

Linnet, her throat closed so far that she could barely speak, said, "It doesn't matter. You could hardly be expected to remember such a small incident." 

"But—but when I saw you on our street and heard Rhys call you Mistress Linnet, I—I thought I'd heard your name before. And—and then I remembered." 

"And so you decided to marry me," Linnet said in the same dead voice. 

"I—I—I wanted to anyway, but—but it made a difference, knowing that—that Golden had wanted me to take care of you. It—it was as though he had given me his blessing. But—but—you mustn't think— I know I'm not Golden; don't think that I don't know that. I'm not that foolish. I—I— No, please don't look like that; it's not what you think—" He stopped abruptly, helplessly, as Linnet's face disappeared behind her hair. Then he said in a rush, "I wasn't going to tell you, but it will be all right, really it will. I'm going away tomorrow, and you won't see me again. I have a friend who says I can stay with him, and he's going to make it seem like I—like I died. He's very clever, my friend is. And even when my guardians find a new baron, you'll still have a quarter of my money until you die, and you'll be able to spend it on the boys, and I won't be here, standing in the way of you remembering Golden, because that's all that— Oh—oh, don't— Oh, please don't." Stewart's voice rose in distress as he turned toward her. "Oh, please—" 

Linnet could not look at him. She felt her body shaking and the tears hot on her face. Then she felt Stewart's arms around her, and she heard him say, "Don't cry, Linnet; don't cry." And for a moment, all was blackness. 

 o—o—o

The evening was clear and the wind was still. Down in the valley, clustered near the foot of the hill, men and horses waited—no longer shouting and moving hurriedly, as they had done earlier in the day, but waiting in watchful silence. The only motion came from the far end of the valley, from a horseman speeding back toward the main troops, bringing the news they had been expecting: that the pass could no longer be held, and that the enemy army would be breaking through soon. 

This much Linnet was able to guess before she turned her attention back to the house, and back to the plank that needed to be rubbed smooth of splinters. 

So quiet was the valley that she heard his footstep before she saw him. He was standing next to the door, his hand lightly resting on the door, and his gaze was fixed, not on her, but on the approaching horsemen. When he looked over at her, though, he said only, "You've no assistants today." 

"Some have gone down to the valley to watch the excitement," she replied, rising to her feet. "The rest have gone to join the army." 

"Ah, that would explain why the army is so short of horses," said Golden, moving forward. "I knew that the street-boys were skilled in picking purses, but I hadn't realized that they had learned how to thieve horses—" 

He stopped short. Linnet, following his gaze, turned and saw that there was more movement at the end of the valley. Men: first a handful, then dozens, falling back under the weight of the attack. Faintly, she heard the triumphant horns of the enemy, but the army below the town remained silent. 

"No time for courting words today, I think." Golden's voice was so close to Linnet that she whirled and found him standing directly behind her. His eyes were grave as he looked down upon her. "Mistress Linnet, I wish to marry you." 

Resisting an impulse to step back from him, Linnet licked her dry lips and said, "You can't—" 

"I know; I can't win you with a little hammering. Nor can I win you with my charm or my beauty or even my father's fortune." There was no trace of a smile on Golden's face. "Now, which path, I wonder, will lead me to your heart?" 

Linnet's mouth was now dry. She said nothing, and after a moment he stepped past her and walked to the edge of the hill. Below, on the far edges of the army, figures too small to be men were darting back and forth, clearly eager to see what was happening further ahead. One of them, turning to look back, waved with frantic eagerness at Linnet. 

Linnet, recognizing Bevis's greeting, waved back, feeling a heaviness in her chest. Beside her, Golden said, "Do you really believe that all of those dark boys have golden boys inside of them?" 

"Yes," replied Linnet tersely. 

There was a silence. Turning to look at Golden, Linnet saw that his gaze was now fixed on the boys below. After a while, he said, "Do you believe that I do?" 

Linnet's lips parted; she stared at Golden, but he did not look her way. His bright hair, falling forward, shadowed his expression. Finally Linnet said, in a firm voice, "Most certainly." 

He turned his head then, and Linnet noticed for the first time the dark skin surrounding his eyes and the tenseness around his mouth. He said, "Then if I were to promise you that, with all the strength I have in my body and will, I would try to become that golden boy you want me to be, would you consider marrying me?" 

The sound of the retreating army was coming closer now, as was the sound of clashing weapons from the battle. Linnet said, "What if I were to say no?" 

"Then I will try anyway," Golden said quietly. "Even if I can only be one of the many golden boys you love, that will be enough for me." 

The first wave of the soldiers who had been guarding the pass had reached the foot of the hill now. Linnet could hear cries and garbled orders and the jingling of chain mail as the horse-mounted soldiers at the front of the army strove to let pass the footbound and wounded soldiers who had returned. Only minutes remained before the attack, and already the army was in chaos. 

"I'll marry you," Linnet said through a throat hard wounded. 

"You will?" For the first time, something broke through Golden's expression. He took a step toward Linnet, then halted abruptly. "Are you sure? That is, if you really want to— If you've thought this through— I could ask you later—" 

He stopped, the corners of his mouth turning upward as Linnet's laughter rolled down the side of the mountain. Below, a few of the boys, watching open-mouthed as wounded men were helped toward the hospital, turned their eyes toward the hill to see what was happening. Golden took the remaining steps toward Linnet and pulled her out of view of the spectators below, under the branches of the wild apple tree shaking down its remaining fruit. For a moment she was sure he would kiss her, but he simply took hold of her hands and stared into her face, like a starving man contemplating a feast. 

Below, amidst the muddled ranks of the defending army, three notes rang long and high. Without moving his gaze from Linnet, Golden whispered a brief curse. 

"What is it?" Linnet asked, twisting to the side to see. 

"The call to assemble," said Golden. He had released Linnet's hands from the moment she made an effort to move, but he remained where he was, gazing upon her. "I must go." 

Linnet turned her eyes away from the boys, now jousting for positions at the foot of the hillside so that they could see the battlefield. Golden looked back at her, as quiet as the sun-soaked leaves falling upon his shoulders. On impulse, Linnet stepped forward and pushed back his cloak. Even before she saw them, she could feel the cold links of the mail. 

She let the cloak fall from her hands. Golden's mouth was smiling; his eyes remained grave. He said, "I wouldn't be much of a golden boy if I stayed here, would I?" 

"Golden—" Her voice perished at the pain in her throat; she tried again. "If you should die—" 

"I won't," he said lightly. "I have to spend my father's fortune, remember?" 

"But if you should— And because of what I said—" 

He moved then, pulling her into his arms. The chill of the mail bit into her as she buried her face against his shoulder. His arms, light and protective, tightened on her. "Don't cry, Linnet; don't cry." His voice was muffled against her hair. 

The horns of the defending army cried again, an urgent plea. Golden's curse was louder this time. He twisted in Linnet's arms, then drew away from her abruptly; she was left grasping air where his body had been. She caught one brief glimpse of his gold-framed face as he turned his head to say, "I'll come back to you, my love—I promise." And then he disappeared over the side of the hill. 

Linnet walked slowly forward. By the time that she reached the side of the hill, Golden had been swallowed into the small body of the army. For reasons that Linnet could not discern, the previous chaos had subsided, and the army had grown still and watchful. Bevis, who had achieved supremacy as the topmost boy on the hillside, was delightedly calling out descriptions of the scene to the other boys. Then he stopped abruptly, and his figure grew still. 

At the other end of the valley, under a blood-red sun sinking below the mountains, the first wave of the invaders entered the valley with all the fury of a nest of hornets swarming toward its victims. 

Her arms wrapped around her chill body, Linnet watched until the defending army lurched awkwardly forward to meet the enemy. Then she began to climb her way carefully down toward the hospital. 

 o—o—o

"Golden." 

The air was black now; the western sky had turned the color of dry blood. All around the night-blind ground, light flickered. Dark shapes moved between the pyres, calling out to each other in young voices. The smell of roasting flesh rose into the air. 

Linnet, drawing slowly back from the Baron of Goldhollow, found that Stewart's face was already turned away, toward the darkness. A candle-flame, leaping high in response to a shuddering breeze, lined the form of Stewart's face and set aglow the lingering autumn of color beneath the white of the baron's hair. Stewart's chest was rising rapidly, but his gaze remained fixed on something in the night-black room. 

Linnet's hand rose, fell, travelled to her mouth. "Golden?" she whispered. "Is it you?" 

The only response was a throb under the folds of skin encasing Stewart's throat. Linnet, following the line of Stewart's gaze, saw a spark in the darkness: a bit of light caught by the gold looking-glass lying face-down on the trunk next to Stewart's bed. 

The cries below turned to laughter. The smell of roasting flesh receded as the meat was removed from the fire. Without moving his head, Linnet's husband whispered, "I'm sorry. I never meant for you to know." 

Another shuddering breeze, warm with the lingering remains of summer, set the candle-flames dancing. The scene blurred under Linnet's gaze, and for a moment it was as though the smoke from the food-pyres had swallowed the room. Then the scene sharpened once more, the shapes of the chamber's objects turning hard and solid. 

Addressing the star of light at the other end of the room, Stewart said, "It's—it's true, most of what I told you. I mean— The parts of it I remember, I mean. I don't remember all of it. I remember reaching the front of the line in the moment before we charged, and I didn't have time to say anything to my father, but he—he smiled at me. And then the horns sounded and my horse lurched forward and— I don't remember. There was wind in my hair, I think, and I wanted to look back at you on the hillside, but—but I didn't dare, because there were so many horses behind me. And I saw the enemy—" 

He stopped. Linnet, seeking without thought the solace of enclosure, had jammed her body into the corner of the alcove. Her fists were hard knots. His voice almost inaudible in comparison to the festivities below, Stewart said, "There was a streak across the sky—a spear, I realized afterwards. I turned my head to see, and I—I saw it travel through my father. And his horse was so close to mine that my father fell onto me, and my horse shied, and—" Stewart's voice tightened like a grip. "I don't remember after that. It hurt. It— Everything was black. I felt as though something—something was lost. I was lost. I couldn't think; I kept trying to think, but— It was too dark to think. And it hurt." 

Stewart's gaze slid away from the mirror-spark; he bowed his head. "I don't— I wish I could remember. It was dark, and it hurt, and I couldn't think. I remember seeing Oliver's face once, and he was talking, but I couldn't hear him. And then I tried to tell him about you, about how someone had to take care of you. But when I looked again, he wasn't there. I—I think he had gone to fetch water for me. The water was cold. And then there were voices, and someone saying my name, and I knew it couldn't be Oliver, because I'd never told him who I was. I'd never told anyone in your town that I was the Baron of Goldhollow's son, that I'd run away—" 

The pause lengthened. Linnet, her lips parted, was seeing in her memory the sudden stillness of the defending army in the moment before battle. She was tracing that stillness to the unexpected arrival of the Baron of Goldhollow's son, the young man who had been so sure that the defense would fail—the young man who, in the end, had joined their hopeless cause. The horns sounded; the army, abruptly renewed, sprung forward . . . 

"I heard people calling after that, saying that the Baron of Goldhollow had been found alive, and I—I thought that they were talking about my father. I'd forgotten that he'd died." Stewart frowned. For the first time, his head turned toward Linnet, but his sky-colored eyes, when Linnet saw them, were blank, staring with furious and futile concentration at a thought that remained afar. After a moment, Stewart shook his head and looked toward the shadow-dusted floor once more. 

"I—I don't remember much after that. I don't remember coming home. I kept trying to think, to understand what was happening, but it hurt, so—so I gave up finally. I think they brought me here, to my bed. That's the first memory I have, of waking up here, but I was very sick, and I didn't really know what this all meant. I'd realized that my father was dead, but that's all. And then—and then my mother died." 

The candles had changed: the relentless heat of the flames had turned the smooth cylinders into misshapen lumps of warm wax. The light played across the side of Stewart's cheek and traced the outline of the scar on his balding head. His hands, as broad as they were long, explored the air, then grew still again as he said, "I was in bed for a long time after that. That's when my hair turned white, and when my—when I became like this." His eyes dipped for a moment, staring down at his corpulent body, then focussed once more on the dark tiles of the chamber. "One day I felt well enough to rise, so I went to my new guardians, and I told them— I tried to tell them about you, about how I'd promised to be your golden boy, and so I must go back and find you. They—they didn't understand, and I couldn't find the words I wanted. The words were there, but they—they were lost somehow. So finally I told my guardians that I'd explain everything when I got better. And they looked at each other, and then—and then I knew. I knew that I would never get better." 

Linnet slowly edged out of the corner into which she had jammed herself. A little closer, and she could see Stewart's eyes, sharply blue, surrounded by an expression of fierce concentration, as though he would lose even this conversation if he did not put all his thought to it. He did not notice her; his face slowly turned once more toward the spark at the other end of the room. 

"A few days later a letter from Oliver arrived. It had taken him all those months to earn enough money to pay a scribe. He said that the doctors had told him that, even if I lived, my mind would never heal. And so he—he told you what he did. I remember—" His voice caught momentarily before saying, "I remember staring at myself in the looking-glass afterwards and thinking that he was right. Golden really did die." 

He must have heard the swift intake of her breath then, for he swung around and began to reach out to her, then quickly dropped his hand. "Please—please don't think— It's not what you think, Linnet. I didn't do all this to trick you. I really told the truth about the money—I know it must seem as though I lied, but it's true. And tomorrow I'll leave and go live with Oliver, and you'll be able to help all those street-boys, and I won't be here to make you forget Golden. Because that's all that matters—that you remember Golden and love him—" 

"Oh, Stewart, you are such a _fool_!" 

His face froze then, etched, in the moment before he turned it away, with the expression of a boy who has received a terrible punishment he has long awaited. His hand, groping, found the edge of the alcove, and he pulled himself up in a fumbling motion. Linnet, moving swiftly, pulled him back and forced his face toward her with her palm. His eyes, light-filled under the candles, bled a plea for mercy. 

"It's _you_ I love, Stewart—you!" Linnet said with all the pent-up frustration of the past weeks. "Not that dark boy who only once showed me that he loved me, and who probably would have broken all his promises to me if he'd come back from the field unscathed. Did you really think I married you for your money? I married you because you're the golden boy I've always longed for: the sort of man who sits in a mud-puddle for a street-boy, and gives his cloak to a penniless cripple, and hands the woman he loves everything he owns and then goes to live amongst rats . . . And all this time I've been hating myself because I was leaving Golden in the past and loving you more than I ever loved him—" 

She stopped; she could not have spoken more, for Stewart's lips had closed upon hers. 

They remained that way for a long, breathless minute, as the boys below, now well filled with the shopkeeper's wedding gift of cider, started to sing bawdy songs, eliciting shocked remarks from some of the barony's inhabitants and laughter from the others. Rhys, evidently hoping to keep peace between the street-boys and the rest of the barony, began singing an old song. "She was fair and sixteen," he sang. "He was nineteen and golden . . ." A hush fell over the festivities, a stillness matching the dark quiet of night. 

It became necessary to breathe once more; Linnet slid her cheek onto Stewart's shoulder, feeling his arms enclose her. After a while, he said softly in her ear, "Actually, some things I remember how to do quite well." 

Linnet began to laugh helplessly into his shoulder. She could feel Stewart quivering with laughter too, even as his hand stroked her hair. Then he pulled back, and she saw once more his face, filled with uncertainty. "Then—then I did right to leave you that day?" he said. "I've always wondered." 

"You did right," she said firmly. "If you'd stayed away from the battle, I'd never have known whether to trust you. And even if you'd been wrong—" 

"Right or right." 

He lifted her hands then, and in the moment before he kissed the backs of her fingers she saw his smile, and around it the face that she had fallen in love with so many weeks before: the lips glistening in the light, the eyes filled with a patience won through hard trials, and the hair, faintly glimmering with the remains of gold overtouched by the white of long suffering. 

"Right or right, my love," Golden Stewart said quietly as he drew her to him. "We found the right path in the end."

**Author's Note:**

>  _Beta readers:_ Ava Jarvis and [Yingtai](http://archiveofourown.org/users/yingtai/pseuds/yingtai). 
> 
> [Publication history](http://duskpeterson.com/cvhep.htm#rightorright).
> 
> This text, or a variation on it, was originally published at [duskpeterson.com](http://duskpeterson.com) as part of the series Darkling Plain. Copyright © 2002, 2013, 2016 Dusk Peterson. Some rights reserved. The text is licensed under a [Creative Commons Attribution Noncommercial License](http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0) (creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0). You may freely print, post, e-mail, share, or otherwise distribute the text for noncommercial purposes, provided that you include this paragraph. The [author's policies on fan works](http://duskpeterson.com/copyright.htm) are available online (duskpeterson.com/copyright.htm).


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